


By Any Other Name

by Bunnywest



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Arranged Marriage, Flirting, Happy Ending, M/M, Prince Stiles Stilinski, Secret Identity, Sellsword Peter, Weapons Training, vaguely historical au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:55:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23605666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunnywest/pseuds/Bunnywest
Summary: "I've tried weapons training before," Stiles tries. "It never works because they're all afraid to hurt the prince. That’s hardly my fault.”A slow smile spreads across the king’s face, one that Stiles doesn’t trust at all.  “That’s exactly why I’m using an outsider.”“Oh?” Stiles's interest is piqued now.The smile doesn’t leave his father’s face. “A traveller. He’s skilled in the art of war.”“You hired a sell-sword? But he could be anybody!”
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 109
Kudos: 1188
Collections: Secret Steter BFFs





	By Any Other Name

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Julibean19](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Julibean19/gifts).



> Julibean asked for Royal AU, and this is what my brain churned out. I hope you like it!

“Weapons training?” Stiles whines, fidgeting as he stands before his father’s desk. He knows he sounds like a petulant child, but even royal heirs are entitled to moments of childishness. At least, he hopes they are.

His father remains unmoved, arms folded across his chest. “Yes. When you’re king you’ll need to be a competent fighter.”

“It’s not like there’s going to be a war,” Stiles mutters. “We’re at peace with all the surrounding kingdoms.”

“That’s beside the point. The king should be able to handle himself in battle, or at least defend himself. What if there was an assassination attempt? Could you fight them off?”

Stiles is silent as he examines the patterns in the carpet. They both know the answer is no. “I’ve tried weapons training before,” he tries. “It never works because they're all afraid to hurt the prince. That’s hardly my fault.”

A slow smile spreads across the king’s face, one that Stiles doesn’t trust at all. “That’s exactly why I’m using an outsider.”

“Oh?” Stiles’s interest is piqued.

The smile doesn’t leave his father’s face. “A traveller. He’s skilled in the art of war.”

Stiles frowns. “You hired a sell-sword? But he could be anybody!”

“This particular man comes recommended by Queen Talia of Triskele, and that’s good enough for me. He won’t bow to your status, and he’ll teach you how to stay alive in a fight.” His father’s expression softens. “Please, son? For me? Now that you’re of marriageable age it makes you a target for foul play, and call me soft, but I like you better with your insides on the inside.”

Stiles groans. His father’s right. Now he’s turned twenty-one and is of an age to choose a bride (something else he’s dragging his feet over for entirely different reasons), the chance of a spy from another territory trying to kill him to upset the balance of power is significantly higher. It’s part and parcel of his role as future ruler, he knows that.

He’s successfully scraped by on the bare basics of swordplay so far, preferring to spend his time in the library or lurking in his father’s office learning about politics and strategy so that he won’t ever have to _do_ the fighting thing – he gets queasy at the sight of blood, so he’s determined that his leadership will be heavy on diplomacy, just like his father’s. But he also knows he can’t avoid this forever, and that his life might, in fact, depend on it. “How many lessons do I have to take?”

“As many as it takes for your instructor to be satisfied.”

“But he could just tell you I’m hopeless, so he gets to stay and get paid. you know how sell-swords are.”

“Stiles, you _are_ hopeless,” his father points out, not unkindly. “Last time I watched, you nearly stabbed yourself in the thigh trying to get a knife into its sheath. But if you put your mind to it, I think you could be a fine swordsman. And if anyone can teach you, it’s Peter.”

The vote of confidence from his father lifts Stiles’s spirits slightly. Maybe he can do this. And since it’s obviously going to happen, he determines that he’ll do his best to make his father proud. He’ll apply himself until he gets the hang of it.

How hard can it be?

* * *

Turns out, it’s _hard._

Stiles glares up from where he’s sprawled in the dirt as his instructor laughs at him. The man’s awful. Terrible. He has no respect for Stiles’s position as heir to the throne. Looking at him, Stiles suspects he doesn’t have much respect for anything.

The sell-sword has a scruffy beard, unkempt hair, and blue eyes that sparkle with mirth every time he puts Stiles on his ass - which he’s just done for the third time in a row. “Concentrate, boy,” he chides, and taps the top of Stiles’s arm with the flat of his wooden sword. Stiles had pouted at the use of the training swords, but he sees the wisdom of it now. “You’ve been fooled by the same move every time.” Peter’s an imposing figure, muscled and handsome under the scruff, with finely chiselled features and a lithe sort of grace about him. He’s absolutely Stiles’s type, much to his dismay. It’s no wonder he keeps getting knocked down with a distraction like that in front of him.

Stiles gives himself a shake. “Show me how you fooled me,” he demands, picking himself up out of the dirt and dusting himself off. “You’re meant to be teaching me, not just showing off at my expense.”

Peter smirks, and Stiles tries not to think about how the expression sits so right on him, how it somehow makes him even more attractive. He’s having enough trouble concentrating as it is. Peter regards Stiles thoughtfully for a moment, before stepping towards him. "Fine. Let's start with the basics." Peter circles him slowly, almost prowling, inspecting him. Finally, he stops directly behind Stiles. “Your posture’s all wrong,” he says, “and your grip is abysmal. But we can fix those.”

Peter sheathes his sword and then there’s a hard body pressed against Stiles’s back, muscled arms encircling him as Peter carefully lays his hands over Stiles’s and corrects his grip on the wooden sword, before pulling his shoulders back and kicking gently at his feet to widen his stance. “Open up for me, there’s a good boy,” Peter murmurs in his ear, and Stiles can’t help the involuntary shudder than runs through him. Peter goes still just for a second, and then he’s moving, hands guiding Stiles’s in a gentle sweeping motion of his blade, back and forth, slow and easy, and Stiles can breathe again.

It’s not that he’s ashamed of being attracted to both sexes, exactly – it’s hardly uncommon. It’s just that he’s not sure how a traveling swordsman would react to being the object of his lust. Stiles tends to limit his trysts to people he knows and trusts, and he doesn’t want Peter to walk away because of unwanted attention, not when he has the skills to teach Stiles what he needs to know.

Stiles keeps moving his arms as directed, Peter’s hands warm and reassuring on top of his and their hips swaying in time, almost as if they’re dancing. Peter says, “See? You’re a natural, when you relax,” and Stiles blushes at both the praise and at Peter’s voice, velvety and smooth and utterly devastating. He could almost imagine they’re talking about something else as they rock gently, back and forth, back and forth. He lets himself enjoy it.

All too soon Peter removes his hands and pulls away. “Yes,” he declares. “You’re teachable. Come back tomorrow.”

He starts to walk away, and Stiles is left standing there holding his blade. “Wait – that’s it?” he asks, incredulous. If they’re only going to train for minutes a day, this will take forever.

Peter turns on his heel. “For the first day? I think that’s plenty.”

Stiles is unreasonably disappointed that it’s over so soon, and his ire causes his mouth to spring into action without his permission. “What, the sword for hire’s done after a quarter-hour? I expected more from someone so highly recommended.”

“Perhaps I’m easing you into it.” Peter looks amused rather than offended, and that raises Stiles’s hackles further.

“Or perhaps this is all an elaborate plan to line your pockets. Can you even fight? I mean you managed to take me down, but I’m no threat. I wonder how you’d fare fighting someone who knows what they’re doing?”

Peter crosses his arms over his chest and juts his chin out in a challenge, eyes narrowed. “Why don’t you fetch someone for me to fight, and we’ll find out?”

“Why don’t I?” Stiles looks around the training yards and sees Danny and Jackson, two of his father’s best guards, wrestling. “Danny! Jackson!” he calls, and they jog over, sweaty, shirtless, and slightly breathless. Stiles would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the view. “This is Peter. He’s meant to be training me, but I’d like to test his credentials first. Either of you care to take him on?”

Stiles thought they’d leap at the chance, but instead the two men hesitate, exchanging a glance. Finally, Danny steps forward. “Certainly, sire.”

“Oh no,” Peter’s voice cuts in. “Let’s make it interesting. I’ll take you both on.” There’s something going on that Stiles isn’t privy to, he’s certain of it, because he could swear Jackson takes the tiniest step backwards before squaring his shoulders and giving a sharp nod. “Weapons or hand to hand?” Peter asks with a tiny smile.

“Both,” Stiles decides. “Hand to hand first, then swords.”

“Done,” Peter agrees, and steps back into the dirt circle they’ve been training in, crooking two fingers of each hand in a beckoning motion at the two men. “Any time, gentlemen.”

Stiles steps back and settles in to watch, his annoyance having given way to intrigue. Surely Peter’s not serious? He can’t possibly take them both on, can he?

Apparently, he can.

It’s over almost before it starts. Stiles watches, transfixed, as the two men rush at Peter, one from each side, and he somehow manages to grab their arms, give a sharp jerk, and flip them completely so their backs hit the dirt with a sickening thud, one-two. Peter drops to his knees with animal grace and slams a forearm over their windpipes, pinning them. He looks up at Stiles and gives a smirk. “Again, Sire? Or shall we move on to weaponry?”

Stiles is both impressed and aroused, his mind helpfully providing images of what it would be like being pinned under Peter in a bed like that, so it takes him a second to answer. “Weapons?” He meant for it to come out as a command, but instead he sounds breathy and uncertain, even to his own ears. He clears his throat, tries again. “Weapons, but one at a time.”

Peter lets the men up, and out of the corner of his eye Stiles sees then muttering to each other and playing some sort of hand game. Jackson must lose because he scowls and steps forward, sword in hand, and takes up a fighting stance.

“Watch and learn, little prince,” Peter says, and advances on his target. To Jackson’s credit, he makes a decent start, but it’s barely a minute before Peter’s crowding him backwards, and then, in a move too fast for Stiles to even see, he darts forwards, flicks the weapon out of the other man’s hand, and rests the point of his blade at Jackson’s throat. Jackson tilts his head back instinctively, and Peter gives Stiles a fierce grin before declaring, ”Next.”

Danny picks up his blade, throwing Stiles a questioning glance, but Stiles makes no move to stop the fight, even though he really doesn’t need to see any more to know that Peter’s fiercely competent – he supposes he should have known, given that Peter was recommended by the werewolf Alpha herself. Danny rolls his neck and shoulders in preparation and steps forwards, determination written in his every move.

Danny lasts a good two minutes longer than Jackson, but watching Peter parry his blows effortlessly Stiles is reminded of nothing more than a cat playing with a hapless mouse. He can tell the exact moment Peter’s done teasing, and not ten seconds later Danny’s flat on the ground with a foot on his chest and a blade to his throat, and Stiles couldn’t even tell you how it happened. From the stunned look on his face, neither can Danny.

Peter lifts his foot and then extends a hand, helping Danny to his feet. “You have excellent skills,” he says, as if he hadn’t just wiped the floor with the man. “You too,” he nods at Jackson. He turns to Stiles. “So what say you, little prince? Am I qualified?” He cocks a brow at Stiles, unbearably smug in his victory.

Stiles swallows down the desire to rebuke the man for addressing him so cavalierly, and instead gives a silent nod. He turns to Danny and Jackson. “Thank you for your help.”

“It was our pleasure Sire,” Danny says, though for some reason he’s looking at Peter.

“Tomorrow morning, then,” Peter says briskly, and strides away without a backward glance.

There’s a moment’s silence, and then Danny sags slightly, clutching his bruised side, and lets out a groan. “Let me just say, I’m in no hurry to fight him again.”

Jackson makes a sound of agreement. The two men walk slowly, carefully, over to a nearby bench and sink onto it with a pained noise, and Stiles has a moment of quiet panic.

If that’s what Peter does to his best guards, how on earth is Stiles ever going to keep up?

* * *

It turns out, it’s not as bad as he imagined.

The next day they pick up where they left off, with positions and hand holds and learning to handle a blade. It’s almost embarrassing to be taken through his paces like a twelve-year-old, except that Stiles remembers with chagrin that he dodged all of this as a twelve-year-old, so he supposes he’s paying the price for it now.

Peter makes no allowances for his royal position whatsoever, chivvying him along like he’s no more than a stable lad, and once he gets used to it there’s something about it that Stiles finds unexpectedly refreshing. “Come on then, boy!” Peter will shout. “Lift that blade! Or are you planning on trimming your opponent’s toenails?” And Stiles will scowl, but he’ll lift his blade, and the nod Peter gives will make warmth bloom in his belly, because he knows the approval’s genuine.

They train every day for a week, no more than an hour at a time, and Stiles thinks he might be making progress, could hold his own now. He’s foolish enough to voice that opinion to Peter, whose eyebrows raise in clear disbelief. “Is that so? Shall we test your theory?” he asks, drawing back from where he’s been wrapped around Stiles’s back, guiding his movements.

He grabs a training sword and stands opposite Stiles. “Show me,” he challenges. “Take me down.”

Stiles freezes for a moment when he realizes Peter’s serious, but then he steps forward, holding his blade the way he’s been taught and giving a tentative thrust. Peter steps to the side effortlessly, and the bastard’s _grinning._ Stiles tries again, a little quicker, but Peter still ducks easily, and then he’s on the offensive, and Stiles finds himself moving back rapidly until his back hits the wall of an outbuilding. Peter keeps him there with a sword at his guts for a moment, before stepping back. Stiles expects to be told he’s hopeless, but Peter gives him an unexpected smile. “You’ve got spirit, I’ll give you that, and you’re not as terrible as you were.” He steps back several paces. “Come on, try again.”

Stiles breaths deeply and thrusts forward without warning, and to his surprise he aims well enough that Peter has to retreat to avoid his blade. It’s a small victory, but he’s encouraged enough to try again, jabbing at his opponent with a little more vigor. “That’s it,” Peter encourages. Stiles hears something and turns his head to see Danny and Jackson watching, and the sight of them there, torsos sweat-streaked and glistening, catches his attention for longer than it should. The next thing he knows, his sword’s gone, knocked out of his hand, and his legs are being kicked out from under him.

He hits the ground with a solid thunk and looks up to find Peter tsking at him and shaking his head. “You need to focus on what we’re doing, not whatever you were watching over there.” He indicates vaguely with his blade, but when he glances over and his gaze lights on the shirtless soldiers that had distracted Stiles, his eyebrows raise. Stiles flushes darkly at being caught out, and he keeps his eyes on the ground. “How interesting,” Peter says softly. “Are you a man of particular tastes, young prince?”

Stiles bites his lip. He’s not ashamed, he reminds himself, and he won’t be cowed by someone who’s a bully for hire. He raises his chin and looks Peter in the eye. “And what if I am?”

Peter tilts his head to the side and smiles. “It seems we have something in common, that’s all.”

Stiles’s jaw drops open, and Peter nudges it closed with the very tip of his sword. He extends a hand. “Up, and I’ll show you what I did so you can avoid it next time. And perhaps we should train in private, so you’re not distracted by the display of fine young muscles, hmmm?” Peter says with a wink as he helps Stiles up.

And then he doesn’t mention it again, just puts Stiles in the dirt for the rest of the hour, laughing every time.

* * *

Stiles aches.

His back aches, his arms ache, his thighs burn, and he’s getting calluses on his palms. He’s been training every day for two weeks, is up to two hours a day now, and he thought his father might be sympathetic, but when he asks him if he can have a day to recover, the king shakes his head, reminding Stiles, “You’re not going through anything your soldiers don’t, son. Besides, Peter might not be here for much longer. We have to make the most of him.”

Stiles is absurdly disappointed at the thought of Peter leaving. He’ll admit, even if it’s only to himself, that he harbors a strange affection for the man and his irreverence. Peter will say things to Stiles that nobody else would dare. Stiles in return, feels free to answer without weighing every word for the possibility of diplomatic disaster. It leads to an exchange of insults that Stiles enjoys thoroughly, and judging by his frequent laughter, Peter enjoys it too.

Peter doesn’t laugh when Stiles drags himself to training that day though, eyeing him critically. “No. Not today. You’re no good to me like this.”

“But – I’m meant to train every day.”

Peter indicates one of the benches scattered around the yards and pats the space next to him. “Sit. We can do something else today.”

Stiles takes a seat and watches Peter reach into a bag at his feet, pulling out a handful of knives and spilling them into Stiles’s lap. “Sometimes a smaller weapon can be better. I’m going to teach you how to conceal these, and how to throw them.”

Stiles bites his lip. It sounds interesting, and he’s always admired a man who can pull a stiletto out of his boot. He’s just not sure if he’d ever be coordinated enough. He picks up a long, thin blade and Peter nods his approval. “A good size. More for stabbing than slashing, but a decent weapon in a pinch.”

Stiles whips the blade back and forth experimentally at the same second that Peter reaches forward. There’s a splash of crimson and blood spills from Peter’s palm as the sharp edge slices into his flesh. “Dammit!” Peter hisses, pulling his hand back. Stiles gapes, horrified at what he’s done.

Blood drips onto the dirt, and Stiles stammers out an apology. “Oh my - oh my god, I’m so sorry! Should I get help? Is it bad? It looks bad,” he babbles, grabbing at the injured hand and pulling it towards himself. Peter lets out a heavy sigh and lets Stiles look. Only when he unfolds his palm, there’s nothing there - just some drying blood and the faintest of pink lines where the injury was. Stiles looks from the hand to Peter to the hand, and the penny drops. There's only one species that he knows of with accelerated healing. “Werewolf?”

“And what if I am?” Peter says, jerking his hand back. “Afraid of me now?” His chin is tilted, his posture suddenly stiff, as if bracing for the answer.

Stiles shakes his head. “No, actually. But it does explain why I can’t keep up.” Stiles has always wanted to meet a werewolf, has been fascinated since he was a child. He knows it’s considered bad etiquette to ask, but it’s not like Peter cares about such things, he’s only a commoner, so Stiles takes a chance. “Will you tell me about it?”

Peter’s face loses some of its wariness at that. “About what, exactly?”

“About _everything_. I’ve never met a werewolf in the flesh, I only know what I get from books a hundred years old, and I don’t trust that they’re right.”

“Why are you even interested? Everyone knows we’re _less than human_.” Peter spits out that last part, and Stiles gets the feeling it’s something he’s heard a lot in his lifetime.

“Some people are threatened by anything different, that’s all. But I don’t think…” Stiles trails off, unsure how to say this without coming off as condescending.

“You don’t think?” Peter prompts.

“I don’t think you’re less. I think you’re more. To be able to change form? Move as fast as you can? Heal your wounds?” He takes Peter’s perfectly fine hand in his, and Peter lets him. “I think it’s amazing.”

The tiniest traces of a smile play at the corners of Peter’s mouth. ‘So now you want to hear it from the wolf’s mouth, so to speak?”

Stiles nods. “They’re talking about finding me a bride, and I overheard my father talking about Triskele. I suspect it’s Princess Cora. If that’s the case, I’d like to know what to expect, make sure I don’t accidentally offend her.”

The hand Stiles is holding gives a gentle squeeze. “And you’re happy with that? Marrying whoever makes the best offer for the sake of your kingdom? Even though your preferences lay…elsewhere?”

Stiles takes a moment to answer. “I’ve always known a political marriage was in my future. As to my tastes? They’re …varied. Taking a bride won’t be a problem, if that’s what you’re implying.” He lets out a tiny sigh. “Besides, it could be worse. It could be Talia’s unreliable brother.”

“The wandering wolf, you mean?”

Stiles nods. “The rebellious royal, the heir who’s not there, the playful prince, Talia’s trial - pick one. Apparently, he travels incognito and works like a commoner, does as he wants, and refuses to let them choose him a bride no matter how much they insist. Handsome but hopeless, I’ve heard him called.” Peter raises an eyebrow and indicates for Stiles to go on. “I’ve heard my father talking to Queen Talia. By all accounts it drives the queen to despair trying to get him to take his responsibilities seriously.”

Peter hums. “Maybe he just wants to make his own choices.”

Stiles snorts. “More fool him. We’re royalty. We don’t get to make our own choices.”

“Indeed,” Peter murmurs, “and how sad is that?” Stiles thinks he sees something like pity in Peter’s eyes and it stings, that a wandering sell-sword would dare think himself better off than Stiles.

“Don’t feel sorry for me,” he says sharply. “My father might be the one who receives the proposals, but I still get the final say in who rules by my side.”

“Oh, I don’t feel sorry for you,” Peter says. “Your future spouse though? I pity them immensely. I can only hope you don’t slice their hand open at the wedding feast when you pass them a butter knife.” Stiles laughs, surprised, Peter’s face creases into a grin, and the tension between them eases.

Peter picks a different knife out of his lap and proffers it. “How about this? I’ll set a target. Every time you hit the mark I’ll tell you something about werewolves. But every time you miss, you owe me…a kiss?”

The offer hangs there, heavy in the silence.

Stiles knows he shouldn’t. Peter’s leaving soon, his father already said so, and it won’t do to get attached. But at the same time, where’s the harm? He’s had dalliances before – it doesn’t have to mean anything. And Peter’s so very lovely, and so very tempting.

“Deal.”

* * *

Stiles has terrible aim, but they both knew that.

* * *

Stiles does, in between trading kisses, learn to throw the knives, and Peter, true to his word, explains werewolf customs to him in detail. It takes a week, one filled with more kissing and flirting, but Stiles practises till his arms ache, and on the day he hits the target five times in a row, Peter shows Stiles his wolf, sitting patiently while Stiles runs a hand over his ridged brow, oohing and aahing.

Eventually, Stiles takes his hand away and Peter shifts back, his features melting seamlessly into human form. “Thank you,” Stiles breathes out, aware of what a privilege it was to see Peter like this.

Peter smiles softly. “If you’re right, and you’re marrying a royal Were, you’ll need to get used to their wolf. It can’t hurt to know what you’re in for.”

“Yeah. But still, I know you don’t show that to just anyone.”

“You’re not just anyone, Stiles,” Peter says. Stiles waits for a punchline, a witty putdown, but for once Peter’s perfectly serious, and Stiles doesn’t quite know what to make of that.

* * *

Peter sidesteps Stiles’s thrust gracefully. “You’ll need to be quicker than that to get me on the end of your shaft, princeling,” he laughs.

“Oh, come now. Just the tip?” Stiles teases, enjoying their banter. Training with Peter’s the only time he gets to say whatever he wants.

Peter smirks and steps back. “If anyone’s getting the tip, it’ll be you.” He takes a moment, and then raises his sword. “Come on, try again. You can do this.”

Stiles gathers himself and prepares to take Peter on again. They’re using real swords - this is meant to be his final test, to see if he’s learnt enough to defend himself, and he refuses to fall at the last hurdle. He’s managed to pin Peter twice – three times and he passes. He swings his sword sharply as Peter goes on the attack, and manages to block his blade, the clang of steel on steel ringing in the still morning air. He doesn’t rest on his laurels, instead pushing forward, forcing Peter back till he’s pinned against a wall. He’s aware that Peter deliberately holds back a lot of his strength when they fight, but he also knows that Peter only gives him the victory if his technique is what it should be. He crowds up close and leans in, grinning. “Well done, little prince,” Peter murmurs, just before Stiles kisses him.

Stiles is addicted to Peter’s mouth. The taste of him, to the feel of his body as they press against each other, is something he can’t get enough of. Despite them now training in private as Peter suggested, they haven’t gone any further than stolen kisses and furtive grinding, but Stiles has a sinking feeling that even that’s going too far. Peter’s the one who always pulls back before it goes any further, reminding Stiles that they’re in public view, and Stiles knows that it’s just common sense. But Peter’s body feels like it belongs beneath his hands, and he craves more. Except he knows he’ll have to give even this up soon, and his heart aches at the thought.

It’s been six weeks since he first set eyes on the sell-sword, and Stiles can’t decide if he regrets or treasures the moment when he first let the man kiss him. He knows they say that it’s better to have loved and lost, but he’s not sure he agrees. His father wants to talk to him after training, and he’s hinted heavily that there’s an offer. He pulls away from Peter with a sigh. Peter reaches out and cups the side of his face. “What’s wrong, sweet boy?” he asks softly, and Stiles could get lost in those blue eyes.

Stiles contemplates saying there’s nothing wrong, but then he remembers. Werewolf. Stiles has learnt a lot in the last few weeks and knows Peter can hear if he’s lying. “I have a meeting with the king.”

“Oh?”

Stiles nods. “I suspect there'll be an offer. And if I accept, it means no more you. Not like this, anyway.”

Peter drapes his arms lazily around Stiles’s neck. “Not necessarily,” he murmurs. “You’re not wed yet.”

Stiles shakes his head. “If I accept, then I’m committed to my partner. It would be disrespectful to them to continue this when I’m promised.”

Peter, oddly enough, gives a nod of approval and pulls back. “Quite right too. It’s only proper.”

Stiles is almost disappointed that Peter hasn't tried harder to persuade him. "Oh, now the sell-sword has a moral code?"

Peter raises one eyebrow. "I just happen to agree with you on this. If you're betrothed, it would be cheating." He tilts his head to the side and asks, “Do you have any idea who you'll be marrying?”

“I’ve seen messengers from Triskele this past week. I’m betting it’s one of the Hales.”

“Cora or Derek, you’d be happy either way,” Peter teases, and Stiles wonders how he can joke about it when their time is nearly over. Maybe, he muses, Peter really doesn’t care. Maybe for him it was just a fling. It didn’t feel like a fling to Stiles, though. Peter must see the hurt in his eyes, because he leans in and kisses his forehead. “I will always treasure this time with you, Stiles,” he says quietly, and then he turns and walks away, leaving Stiles alone and fighting back tears.

Maybe Peter was right to feel sorry for him after all.

* * *

Stiles takes his time getting to his father’s office. He spends longer than normal washing himself. Sluicing the sweat from his torso feels like washing his time with Peter away as well. He runs a fingertip down his cheek, trying to recapture the memory of Peter’s touch, before shaking his head in annoyance at himself.

He knew this was coming. If he was unwise enough to harbor feelings for someone just because they were attractive and clever and treated him like a person rather than a position, more fool him. He’ll be grateful that he can at least take up a sword now, he’ll put all thoughts of Peter behind him, and he’ll focus on finding common ground with his bride.

Stiles deliberately doesn’t think of the nights he's spent these last weeks with his hand on his cock, whispering Peter’s name into the dark as he came.

He towels himself dry and dresses in something appropriate for a royal audience, wrestles his hair into something slightly more formal than his normal birds-nest, and takes a deep breath.

He’s ready.

Probably.

* * *

“You wanted to see me?” Stiles tries not to fidget as he sits down. His dad’s wearing that smile again, the one that Stiles doesn’t quite trust. 

“There’s been an offer of marriage. It's from Triskele.” It’s nothing Stiles wasn’t expecting, but his stomach still drops at hearing the words. He nods and waits for his father to tell him it’s Cora. Except that’s not what his father says at all. “Talia’s brother wants to marry you.”

Stiles pulls up short. The shadowy figure who skirts the edges of royal duty, comes and goes as he pleases, and is rarely seen, wants to marry _him?_ Stiles didn’t even know he was an option. “What?”

“Queen Talia’s brother,” his father repeats, seemingly unconcerned at the thought of Stiles marrying a complete stranger. “He wants to marry you. Says there’s no place for him in the Triskele hierarchy, and he’d sooner rule Beacon alongside you.”

“But - but - the prince-he’s a man,” Stiles gets out.

The king rolls his eyes. “Are you telling me that’s a problem for you? Or have your tastes changed since you started sneaking out at night and meeting Danny at the barracks?”

Oh. Stiles didn’t know his father was aware of those particular adventures. “No, it's not a problem,” he mutters, staring at the carpet, face heating with embarrassment. “But he doesn't know me. And I thought he refused to wed?”

“No, I refused to wed _just anybody_. Hello, princeling,” comes a familiar drawl, and Stiles’s head snaps up. Peter’s leaning against the doorpost, arms folded casually across his body, only it’s…it’s _not_ Peter, not the way Stiles knows him.

This Peter is washed and groomed and handsome. The beard’s been trimmed back to even stubble, his hair’s been tamed from its normal wild state into something perfectly coiffed and decidedly regal, and there’s a coronet perched there. Gone are the battered pants and half- undone shirt, and in their place are a deep blue fitted shirt and soft linen trousers. His throat is adorned with gold chains, and on his hand is a signet ring. Stiles can clearly see the wolf’s head embossed on it, the royal seal of Triskele. Peter steps closer, stopping in front of Stiles. “What do you say, Stiles?”

Stiles’s head is spinning. The man in front of him is everything he wants, and nothing that he claimed to be. Stiles isn’t sure if he should kiss him or punch him in his smug, beautiful face. “You – you’re –“

“The wandering wolf. Also known as the rebellious royal, the heir who’s not there, the playful prince, Talia’s trial – take your pick.” There’s definite amusement in his voice as he recites the titles back.

“Stiles, may I present Prince Peter of Triskele,” His father says, grinning.

And that, the way his father’s so damn pleased with himself, tips the balance, makes Stiles suddenly furious. He points an accusing finger. “You knew!”

His father shrugs. “Peter approached me to see if I was amenable to a match. I wasn’t convinced, so he suggested you two get to know each other without there being anything at stake. If you hadn’t been compatible, he would have gone on his way, no harm done.”

Stiles turns on his heel and pokes Peter in the chest. “So, what? You toyed with my affections, played me for a fool? I said things, did things I never would have done if I knew you were a prince!” Stiles cringes as he thinks of the way he spoke so cavalierly, flirted so hard, about the distinctly improper way they’d kissed.

Peter crouches so he’s directly in front of Stiles and lays a hand on his knee. “That was the point, sweetheart. I wanted to know the real you.”

Stiles keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the floor. “It was a dirty trick,” he mutters.

Peter sighs, cups Stiles’s face in one broad hand. “I didn’t want to marry a stranger. I saw a chance to get to know you, and I took it. Wouldn’t you have done the same in my postion?”

Stiles knows he absolutely would have. Isn’t that part of why he liked Peter so much? Because he didn’t treat him as a prince, but as a person? Still, the deception rankles. He pulls back, away from Peter’s touch. “Why would I marry someone who’d lie about who they are?”

Peter sighs. “I didn’t lie, not exactly. Peter the wandering sell-sword is as real as Peter the prince. And anyway, answer me honestly. If I’d have turned up like this,” he indicates himself, ”would I have gotten to see anything but polite, proper, Prince Stiles?”

Stiles considers what Peter’s saying, and reluctantly admits to himself that he’s right. If presented with the roaming prince of Triskele, Stiles would have politely dismissed him based on his reputation alone. He twists his fingers together in his lap and mumbles, “Probably not, no.” He’s desperately trying to hold on to his annoyance, but he can feel it slipping away as it gradually dawns on him just what this means. He gets to keep Peter. Or Peter gets to keep him, he’s not sure which, and he’s not sure it even matters.

“I know what I did was selfish, and I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner, but I developed feelings for you far faster than I expected. And then I was afraid you’d be angry, and I’d lose my chance with you, so I took the easy way out and kept quiet, hoping you’d forgive me when the truth came out.” Peter’s hand creeps an inch up his leg, and his other hand tilts Stiles’s face up until he’s looking into Peter’s impossibly blue eyes. They’re full of hope and affection. “You said it yourself. We royals don't get to make our own choices. Except this time, we can. I find myself quite taken with you, Stiles. Accept my offer?” He leans in as close as possible and whispers, “Please, sweetheart?” before brushing his lips gently against Stiles’s cheek in a silent, heartfelt apology.

Stiles's anger melts away at the term of endearment, and he knows what his answer's going to be. Sighing deeply, he says, “I’m never going to be able to say no to you when we're married, am I?”

“Probably not.” Peter smirks, and pulls him in for a proper kiss.

* * *

“But what about an heir?” Danny asks him later, when Stiles goes to tell him the news. It only seems right to let Danny know before he hears it officially.

Stiles sighs happily. “It’s being written into the succession laws that we can adopt, or use a surrogate. And there’s no rush.” 

“Look at you, grinning like an idiot over your prince charming,” Danny teases.

“Shut up.” Stiles shoves at Danny, but its affectionate. “I got what I wanted. Let me enjoy it.” A thought strikes him. “Wait, you already knew he was the prince, didn’t you? That’s why you didn’t want to fight him.”

Danny squirms under Stiles’s gaze. “Jackson recognized him, but he swore us to secrecy. Maybe threatened us a little bit.”

Stiles can just picture it. Peter’s suitably terrifying, when he wants to be.

“Fair,” he concedes. He stands up, stretching. “I’d better go. There’s an announcement to prepare for.”

Danny waves a lazy farewell, and Stiles wanders back up to the palace. He’s heading for the side entrance, the one he used to think nobody noticed him using, when a strong pair of arms catches him about the waist from behind and lifts him off the ground. There’s a soft pair of lips pressed to the base of his neck, and Stiles finds himself turned around to face his soon-to-be fiancé. Peter leans in for a kiss and Stiles returns it, enjoying the fact that he gets to have this now.

They spent lazy minutes kissing and running their hands over each other's bodies, until finally Peter pulls away. “Where did you go?” he asks, nuzzling at the side of Stiles’s throat.

“To tell Danny. Seemed like the proper thing to do,” Stiles answers, tilting his head to the side to give Peter better access. He’s already discovered that werewolves are tactile creatures, or perhaps that’s just Peter. Soft kisses on the skin of his neck make him tingle with anticipation, and he taps Peter on the shoulder. “Shall we find somewhere more private, take this further?”

Peter pulls away. “I don’t think so. It wouldn’t be proper, before we’re wed.”

Stiles thinks he’s joking at first, but Peter shows no sign of going back to what he was doing, and it slowly dawns on Stiles that he’s serious. “What? Why?”

“I can’t wait to have you under me in a bed sweetheart, but I won’t have it be a rushed fumble with one ear listening in case we get caught. I want to take my time with you, spend hours making you cry out my name. We wait till we’re married.”

Stiles pouts. “But the wedding could be months away.”

Peter smirks. “Actually, that’s what I came to tell you. There’s a chance, if we’re very, very clever, that we can make it happen in three weeks. There’s a spot on the calendar that works for all parties involved. What do you say?”

“Yes. Definitely yes.” Stiles nods frantically, and Peter lets out a soft laugh.

“How did I know you’d say that? Now come, we have an appointment with the tailor.”

“You don’t actually get to tell me what to do, you know,” Stiles mutters, still put out at the thought of no sex.

“Is that so?” Peter says quietly, giving Stiles a speculative look.

Stiles nods again. “I’ll outrank you once we’re wed. You’ll be the prince-consort. You’ll have to do as I say.”

Peter just laughs. “Good luck with that, sweetheart.” He picks Stiles up without warning and slings him over his shoulder, carrying him all the way to the tailors while ignoring his weak protests.

Stiles should probably mind more than he does.

* * *

Peter, it turns out, is a man of his word. It’s the longest three weeks of Stiles’s life.

* * *

Peter makes it up to him after the ceremony. There’s a window of opportunity between the wedding and the reception several hours long, and Peter uses the time to sneak them away. He fucks Stiles slow and deep, and as he lays in a post orgasmic haze, Stiles admits to himself that it was utterly perfect, and definitely worth waiting for.

They’re late when they finally make it to the reception, and Stiles notices the members of Peter’s family arching their collective eyebrows and giving him and Peter disbelieving looks. “Really, Peter?” Queen Talia hisses.

“Why are they looking at me like that?” Stiles whispers, glancing frantically down at himself. “Do I have come on me somewhere?”

Peter gives a filthy grin and replies out of the corner of his mouth, “Not _on_ you, no.”

Stiles’s sex-addled brain belatedly reminds him about a werewolf’s heightened sense of smell. “You scent-marked me on purpose, didn’t you?”

“Absolutely,” Peter says, still smiling. “You’re all mine.”

Stiles sighs. Being married to Peter’s going to keep him on his toes, he can already tell.

He can’t wait.


End file.
